


Apostitution

by sierralie



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: M/M, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-05-24
Updated: 2011-07-30
Packaged: 2017-10-19 18:13:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/203819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sierralie/pseuds/sierralie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From the kmeme.<br/>Prompt: "“Just how does Anders finance his clinic in Darktown? How does he pay for the bandages and the medicines? Hawke wonders about that. And then he discovers that Anders has been prostituting himself to keep the clinic afloat. Naturally, he's angry at him, and intensely jealous, but also feels a tiny bit of admiration that Anders is ready to do such a thing for his patients. Bonus points for Hawke insisting that he finance the clinic for now on, as well as claiming Anders as his own in a bout of possessive, almost violent sex, growling that Anders is his and his alone <strike>and that he'll kill him if he ever catches him with someone else</strike>.”</p><p>(Updated) Note:  The original prompter for this fill pretty much hated how I've chosen to write Anders, his sexual morals, and how he handles himself in relation to Hawke.  After some much-appreciated encouragement, I'll continue updating this fic.  It might take a little bit of time to really get my heart back into writing, but there will be more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Anders propped his staff against one wall of the clinic wearily, and went to scrub layered grime and what he hoped wasn’t spider innards from his hands in a small basin while Hawke figured out the shares from the day’s mission. He hated being dirty. For that matter, he hated looking so shabby, but a stirring in his thoughts reminded him of Justice’s insistence that vanity was useless and distracting, and he sighed. He’d had such a stylish set of robes before leaving Amaranthine, too.

Caught up in bemoaning his current sad fashion statement, Anders didn’t notice Varric until the dwarf was right beside him. “I’ve got to hand it to you, Blondie, you do a lot of good work here for a lot of people. I never did see how you could make the money work, though. I’ve spent enough time in the Merchant’s Guild to have some idea of how much things cost, even just bandages and soap and thread.”

Varric was more concerned with polishing away a just-noticed and utterly unacceptable spot of dirt that had clung to Bianca, or he might have noticed Anders’ reaction. The mage froze on the spot and struggled to form a reply in something resembling a normal tone of voice. “Donations. Most of my patients can’t afford much, and I don’t charge for my services, but they give what they can. I make it work. With magic for healing I don’t need as many supplies as an herbalist or other healer.”

Varric nodded, his momentary curiosity apparently sated. “Makes sense. If you ever need anything out of the ordinary, I might be able to hook you up, get you a good deal. I have a lot of connections.”

Anders exhaled in relief. “Thanks, Varric, I appreciate that. I’ll be sure to let you know if I do.”

The healer didn’t notice Hawke across the room looking at the shelves of supplies with newly sparked curiosity, brow furrowing with concern. The tall warrior jingled a handful of spare coins thoughtfully as he put away the rest of the reward money for later distribution to other party members. Varric was, after all, very capable with figures, and if he thought something didn’t add up, it probably didn’t. Another glance at Anders’ less-than-new robes and the rather battered and dingy cot he slept on offered other pieces of evidence that the healer might not have as much coin as he wanted to let on. Hawke wondered if Anders would notice if he just happened to misallocate a portion of his own coin from the next job in Anders’ favour.

Anders went to the door to greet a newly-arrived patient with a broken arm, and Hawke suggested to Varric that it was time to go and let the man be about his work. The pair picked their way through the grimy back alleys of Darktown, headed for Lowtown and the Hanged Man for what promised to be - according to Varric - a night of drunken revelry with Isabela. Hawke still couldn’t get the earlier thought out of his head.

“Varric, do you think Anders can really afford that clinic?”

“What? Sure, why not. He said he was getting coin from his patients.”

“Did that boy, the one with the broken bone, look like he had so much as a copper in his pockets?”

Varric scratched behind one ear thoughtfully. “Now that you mention it, no. It probably evens out, though. Some people pay a little more, some people pay a little less. It’s not like Anders has a big drinking habit to support outside of the clinic.” The dwarf chuckled and shook his head. How anyone could live in Kirkwall without being able to drink, preferably in quantity, was beyond him.

Hawke shrugged, willing to be content with that answer for the moment. He pulled open the door to the Hanged Man only to see Isabela at the bar toying with her latest head-over-heels suitor, and he grinned with a glimpse of the poor man’s desperately adoring expression. “Want to place bets on how long she can string this one along, Varric?”

Varric laughed. “It’s almost not a fair bet. That woman has skills like I’ve never seen.”

Hawke ordered a round of drinks with a gesture to Corff and settled into a seat at their usual table to relax and watch Isabela flirt. Her charms might not suit his current preferences in plumbing, but she was invariably entertaining to watch at work. Varric proposed a game of diamondback, and Merrill arrived just in time to join in the first hand, and soon Hawke had forgotten all about the clinic’s operating costs.


	2. Chapter 2

Anders wished dearly that he could just collapse into sleep. The day had held what felt like an unending series of treks from one end of Kirkwall to the other and back again with a few added (and usually slightly out of the way) stops in the middle. Why Hawke insisted on taking jobs that were little better than glorified courier runs, he’d never understand. Instead of finding sleep, Anders pulled out his only set of spare robes, tucked them into a worn pack along with a few other items and left the clinic, headed for Hightown. As was his habit, he emerged from the stairs directly opposite the entrance to the Rose and looked around cautiously for familiar faces before proceeding. He’d nearly walked right in to Isabela and Merrill out for a stroll one night, and it had required some deft maneuvering on his part to convince the Rivaini that he was headed elsewhere. Thankfully, Merrill had afforded him a distraction when she’d started to burble on about something or another that she’d just thought of, and the two had wandered off hand-in-hand after a few moments more. He might never understand why Isabela was so taken with the little mage - who could have predicted she’d fall for the sweet and innocent sort?

Anders waved a greeting to Madame Lusine as he entered, and she beckoned him over to talk. “Ah, Anders, I was hoping you’d be in tonight. One of the girls has a bit of a condition for you to look at, when you have the chance.”

Anders smiled while suppressing a surge of dismay at having to expend energy he barely felt he had. “I’ll go find her now before I start. Anyone else I should talk to while I’m at it?”

“Sabina’s brat’s been on about something, but that boy is always underfoot and trying to be trouble. I wouldn’t worry yourself about him until he’s really ill.” Madame Lusine made a little ‘tsk’ of disapproval, a child running wild about the Rose never quite acceptable in her eyes.

The diversion for Anders to act as the Rose’s resident healer took, as it usually did, longer than he’d planned. After tending to the first of the girls, two more came by with questions that were more immediate than hypothetical, and a third wandered in for no apparent reason other than to flirt with Anders while he worked. He supposed he shouldn’t be frustrated. Madame Lusine had offered Anders a trade: if he provided medical care and checkups for her workers, she’d give him a room to use when he needed and refer the Rose’s customers to him without taking her usual cut of the earnings. Lusine’s girls (and some of the men) had latched on to him from the start, fussing over him and flirting shamelessly whenever they had the opportunity. Better still, they helped to direct clients to him - and distract others that might prove to be dangerous. There were far too many templars who were regular patrons of the Rose, but that risk was still far better than what he’d have faced if he’d been working in the streets.

Anders finally made it to his room, donning the spare robes he’d brought with him. Still shabby, he thought ruefully, but cleaner and a touch more appropriate to this place than the ones he wore for combat and travel. He thought about making a stop by the Hightown robe merchant if the night paid well, covetously imagining delicate fabrics and flattering silhouettes, but as soon as his imagination strayed just a little he remembered his dwindling stock of bandages and sighed. Time to work, so he’d have the coin to do his real work. Maybe in time Hawke’s expeditions would prove to be lucrative enough that he could stop doing this entirely.

He glanced in the mirror, reaching up to pull out the leather tie and let his hair fall loosely around his face, fluffing it a little with his long fingers. Katriela had mentioned a patron who’d been asking for someone roughly fitting his description - the tall and blond part, at least - and so Anders ventured downstairs to the tables in search of this prospective customer.

Katriela winked at Anders and gave a nod in the direction of the corner table. He thought through a handful of his terrible hookup lines, most of which he’d borrowed from the other workers at the Rose. Usually his old wit served him particularly well when drawing the attention of a potential client, but tonight he just couldn’t muster up enough enthusiasm to be charming.

Anders approached the man and smiled, taking a seat across the table and leaning in. Maybe ‘companionable’ would be enough to get him a client tonight. “Can I offer you something more interesting to occupy your evening?”

The other man looked him over deliberately, reaching out to run fingers through Anders’ hair and down the side of his neck before nodding and leaning back to down the last of his ale. Anders didn’t try to suppress the shiver that ghosted through him at the touch. He’d learned to just let go and let his body respond to what a patron desired. The first nights he’d been so awkward and self-conscious that Madame Lusine had felt obliged to sit him down for a ‘business chat’, as she’d termed it, before proceeding to call in Cora and Adriano. That pair had taken him upstairs and given him a very thorough introduction into some of the nuances of the art of trading pleasure for coin. He’d tried to protest at first, arguing that he’d warmed many a bed with few complaints, but when he finally relented and allowed them to teach, he’d discovered that there was much more to being a skillful prostitute than enjoying a nice tumble.

Anders took the man by the hand and stood, smile fixed on his lips as the pair moved up the stairs together. He still always felt less conspicuous inside a private room, less on the alert for the arrival of someone who shouldn’t find him at the Rose. He leaned against the back of the door as it closed, putting a sultry lilt in his voice. “What is your pleasure tonight, serah?”

The man approached him with lust in his gaze, claiming Anders’ mouth with hard, rough kisses until his lips felt bruised and swollen. He groaned, surrendering himself to his patron’s desire. Surrender, too, had been a learned response. Years of fleeing the Circle had left him with a tendency to take on the role of aggressor in sex, reluctant to make himself vulnerable or to extend any real trust. Here, refusing to relinquish the guiding role to a patron who desired it would at best lose him a night’s income, if not jeopardize his arrangement with Madame Lusine.

When the man at last pulled away with a moan of his own, Anders had been kissed and groped thoroughly enough to have left him heated and hungry, his arousal creating a distinct tightness in his smallclothes. At the patron’s request, he stripped off robes and smallclothes, with a sigh of relief at the coolness of the air on his body. The next exchange of words, however, left him with a sudden chill that penetrated more deeply than the goosebumps that peppered his skin.

“I have a fantasy I want to play out, and you look the part better than I could have hoped. Lusine’s usual boys just aren’t at all convincing.”

Anders took a step closer, tongue flicking over his lips. “What part is that, serah?”

The man withdrew a coil of rope from his belongings. “My very favourite game. The templar and the escaped mage.”

Anders thought he might fall over or run screaming from the room, and that was if he managed not to assault this man whose patronage was going to buy the next week’s worth of supplies for the clinic. He clenched his fists so tightly that his fingernails drew pinprick spots of blood from his palms. Through gritted teeth, he managed to reply. “And.. what role would you have me play?”

The man laughed. “The mage, of course. I don’t pay whores to tie me up, and that pretty mouth of yours is ripe for the taking.” He grasped one of Anders’ wrists to tug him closer, then slid his hand down to fondle Anders’ still-hard prick. “I see it excites you too. Kneel, mage.”

The ground had opened up and he was falling through an unending expanse of air, Anders was sure of it. He felt sick, and he was on his knees even though he didn’t recall how he’d gotten there. The man was binding his wrists - knots done with an expert flair, Anders reflected with some oddly detached part of his mind, perhaps a sailor or docksman. He was saying something, playing the templar role more convincingly than he had any right to, venomous and threatening words that made Anders cringe with a sudden fear that he should have been begging by now, kissing the man’s boots like a dog in hopes of avoiding the lash or worse.

The man grasped him by the shoulders, shaking him roughly, uttering other words under his breath. “You’re so good, just perfect, just like I always wanted this to be.” He tugged down his trousers, exposing his heavy cock, and pulled Anders forward on his knees. “Suck me. Use that filthy mouth.”

This part Anders could do without thinking, without remembering. He lowered his mouth onto the man’s sex, eyes closed in concentration, using the skills he’d honed during years of furtive encounters in the Tower, stolen moments amongst the Wardens, and nights spent seeking to please in this very room. This part was easy. What came after was not. The man was regrettably adept at delaying his own satisfaction, and even more regrettably adept at happening upon the right words to make Anders feel exactly like the boy he’d been when the templars had really hunted him down and taken him back to the Circle in chains. He cried, sometime in the midst of the night, his patron’s prick hardening at the sight of those falling tears. He writhed and moaned and tried not to scream as he was bent over the end of the bed and impaled on that hard prick, the man who’d bought him for the night ruthless until at last Anders heard him cry out with long-delayed pleasure.

When the ropes came off and the night was done at last, Anders watched dully as the man deposited a pile of gold sovereigns on the table and returned to claim a final rough kiss. “You were exquisite. I hadn’t dared to dream that I’d find someone so adept at play-acting that part. I’ve left you a little extra, by way of thanks.”

Anders picked up the coins one by one once he was alone, dropping them into his pouch like lead weights. He had to fight back Justice’s dire rumblings with reminders that the clinic was an important part of his work in Kirkwall, that the Rose was just a convenient way to earn what he needed, but every coin he retrieved seemed to put the lie to his words.

The next morning, Hawke came to the clinic with Merrill and Aveline, a new contract in hand with the ink still fresh, ready to take the little party to the Wounded Coast. As Anders put some potions and supplies in his pack, Hawke approached and touched him on the shoulder.

“Anders - are you okay? You look like someone punched you in the mouth.”

The mage raised his fingers to his bruised lips, memories of the night before making him shudder in helpless dismay. “Fine. Just a little accident.” Hawke was still looking at him, expecting more of an answer, and Anders cursed silently. “A.. patient,” he ventured, hoping the lie would be enough to forestall further questions. Somehow, his luck won out, and Hawke wandered off with a distinct frown and a concerned suggestion to be more careful. Anders swore to himself that he was done, that he’d find some other way to afford what he needed for the clinic. There had to be another way.


	3. Chapter 3

Two weeks later the clinic ran out of clean blankets and one of the dilapidated patient cots finally broke. Anders, distracted and burdened with mounting worry, dropped a half-dozen potion vials on the floor, their precious contents spilling irretrievably onto the dirty ground. Hawke hadn’t been by in days, and there were no other jobs on the horizon. That night, Anders found himself lurking outside the Rose in the Red Lantern District, working up the nerve to go back inside.

Mistress Lusine greeted him as warmly as if he hadn’t been away at all. The girls dragged him into the kitchens to stuff him with bread and cheese, telling him he looked too skinny. Back in the main room, he found himself continually staring at the corner where he’d met his last client. He turned away, refusing to let himself be bested by a memory. That night he charmed three women in a row into his room, each of them gentle and eager and hungry for a willing lover who’d take the time to offer them pleasure. The next morning, the clinic’s shelves were restocked nearly to overflowing. It was easier, after that, to return to the Rose when his available funds dipped.

In time, Hawke reappeared at the clinic with a new job, this time involving a longer trek up Sundermount. “I need you, Anders. We won’t get through this one without a capable healer, and you know you’re the only one who fits that description.” He seemed to realize that his words were giving the wrong impression when Anders scowled and turned away to fold a pile of blankets. Hawke stepped closer, placing a hand on the healer’s shoulder. “I _want_ you to come. We.. I miss your company.” Hawke offered a hesitant smile.

Anders inhaled sharply with the touch, masking it with a quick cough. Hawke did _not_ need to find out how many nights he’d lain in the clinic unable to sleep, staring at the very dull ceiling, and had let the hours pass with idle thoughts of Hawke in a wide variety of very interesting positions. For that matter, he did not need to be thinking about that right now, not at all. Anders turned his head, reluctant to dislodge those fingers. “How could I resist?”

Hawke’s quick smile was nearly reward enough. “Excellent. Varric is picking up supplies. Merrill will be along soon - she said something about saying goodbye to Isabela. I can’t imagine what’s taking them so long, it’s been well past an hour.”

Anders looked at Hawke in astonishment. “You didn’t know that they’re together?”

From the gobsmacked expression on Hawke’s face, followed by a sudden dawning understanding, this had clearly come as a surprise. “Oh. _Oh._ Well, that explains - actually, it explains rather a lot.”

Anders had to laugh. “Hawke, you may be the Maker’s gift to the Kirkwaller in need, but observant you are not.”

Hawke hung his head with a boyish grin. “I’m really not. Bethany and Carver used to take fabulous advantage of that when we were all children, brats that they were.”

Anders chuckled and decided that Hawke’s poor skills of observation definitely warranted some taking advantage of. Hawke became engrossed in reorganizing his pack, and Anders leaned against the wall and let his gaze wander over the other man very, very thoroughly.

\--

Sleep and Justice didn’t go well together, and so Anders was often awake long into the night whether he liked it or not. He discovered, to his delight, that Hawke kept similar hours.

The nights on Sundermount were cool, and Varric kept the campsite fire burning with a mix of fallen logs and underbrush and some dwarven compound he refused to say more about. “The Merchant’s Guild would be after me in an instant if they found out I’d passed _that_ secret around for free,” he insisted.

At the end of the first evening on the mount, Anders settled in by the fire while Varric and Merrill curled up to sleep. He fished inside his robes for a small sheaf of papers on which he’d started to jot down some thoughts about mages and the Chantry and the Circles. So far most of what he had consisted of fragmented sentences with doodled kittens (and one very large tiger) in the margins, but it was a start.

Hawke took a seat not far away, tugging his boots off and wriggling his toes with a sigh, propping both feet up on a rock to warm them by the fire’s heat. “Some days I think all of this walking is going to do me in.”

Anders flashed a smile at him and made a quick gesture. “Not while I’m around it won’t.”

Hawke groaned in delight and lay back on the ground with his hands folded under his head, the aches banished from his feet thanks to the small healing spell. “Remind me why I don’t take you everywhere I go? I could get used to this.”

“Ah, Anders the amazing pocket healer,” the mage quipped with a showy flourish. “I’d take you up on that irresistable offer, I’m sure, but my patients need me. And the cats, which remain as yet only hypothetical.”

The light banter that ensued kept both men amused and awake long past when they’d meant to find sleep, and the next morning Varric teased them both relentlessly about their matching yawns and bleary eyes. Hawke, blushing, threatened to thump the dwarf if he didn’t stop, and Varric responded with a grin and some meaningful gestures toward Bianca.

Each evening, Hawke and Anders whiled away the hours in one another’s company. Frivolous joking chatter turned into more thoughtful discussions about whatever topic came to mind - “See, I can hold down a conversation about something other than the plight of mages,” teased Anders - and tentative, hesitant forays into more personal revelations. Somehow, the setting seemed perfect for their growing familiarity - the campsite was quiet (barring an occasional snore from Varric), the night’s dark unbroken except for the intimacy of the firelight they shared.

When the job was complete, the little group descended back toward Kirkwall. Hawke seemed wrapped in thought and spoke seldom except to answer questions or humour Merrill as she chattered on to anyone who would listen. Anders felt a growing burden as the city, and the clinic, grew closer and his responsibilities there became again unavoidable. Both men thought ahead to the coming night in their own homes with a remarkable lack of enthusiasm.

Varric and Merrill left together to return to Lowtown, a spring in Merrill’s stride at the prospect of returning to the Hanged Man. Hawke walked through Darktown with Anders on the pretext of ensuring the templars hadn’t been nosing about the clinic in the healer’s absence.

Hawke reached out to grasp Anders’ hand impulsively as the healer started to open the door to the clinic. “Anders, I.. Would you like to have dinner? I mean, with me. At my place.” He sighed and gave a self-deprecating laugh. “Maker, I’m going to start sounding like Merrill soon. I’m terrible at this, I really am. I just thought - I’ve really enjoyed having these nights to talk.”

Anders gave the other man’s hand a gentle squeeze, and he smiled reassuringly. “It’s fine. You’re fine. And yes, I’d like that. Next weekend?”

That night, despite their return to solitude, both men fell asleep with a smile on their lips.


	4. Chapter 4

The Sundermount job hadn’t paid quite as well as Anders had hoped, and the extra supplies for extended travelling had cost a touch more than expected. Within days of returning, he found himself looking morosely into a virtually-empty coin pouch. He left the clinic for the Rose with some reluctance, thinking ahead to dinner with Hawke to cheer himself up while he made his way through the back streets. Maybe he’d take a bottle of wine with him - Justice didn’t object quite as vehemently to wine with a meal. Well, not usually.

Madame Lusine beckoned him over when he entered. “Anders! I’d hoped you might come tonight. There’s a patron who’s been asking after you. He’s been in last night and again tonight. I told him you weren’t a regular, but he said he’d wait and see. I sent him ahead to your room on the chance you might be in, as he didn’t want to sit in the common room.”

Anders’ stomach twisted, and he clutched his pack with growing trepidation. That patron. It had to be. He wondered whether he could fabricate some dire emergency that would convince Madame Lusine that he had to leave - right then. She was watching him expectantly, and he nodded, trying to look less miserable than he felt. At least the man had paid well - no, not enough for that, not even close. Maker, let it be someone else.

Anders ascended the stairs with leaden feet, eyeing the closed door of his room all the while. Maybe he could seduce the man into a different scenario this time. He sighed and opened the door, stepping into the room wearing his best attempt at an alluring smile.

“Oh, _Maker’s balls._ ” Anders froze with one hand on the doorknob, one foot in the room, and his mouth hanging open. Sounds from the Rose spilled in through the open doorway: patrons and workers alike laughing as they shared words over drinks, soft giggles as a pair darted up the stairs to a private room, echoes of pleasure coming from an already-occupied room.

Hawke lounged on the bed, his posture deceptively casual in contrast to the barely-restrained emotion showing on his face. He swung his legs onto the floor, perching on the edge of the bed. His gaze didn’t waver from Anders for so much as a moment. “I hope that’s not your usual professional opening line.”

Anders snapped his jaw back into place, took a deep and hopefully fortifying breath, and stepped all the way into the room, shutting the door behind him. He’d gotten himself into some awkward scenarios before but this really had to take the prize. “Hawke. Fancy seeing you here. I - um. I can explain.” Maker, this was _not_ the time to be stammering and stumbling over words.

The other man’s characteristic sarcasm emerged even if the humour didn’t show on his face. “Can you, now.”

Anders winced. “Ah - maybe this isn’t the time. Or the place. We could talk later.”

Hawke was on his feet before Anders entirely registered the movement, long strides propelling him across the room to the mage. He closed his fingers around Anders’ throat and shoved him against the wall with a thump, pinning him there. “Later? I think now will do nicely. Unless you’re more concerned with seeing to your _clients_?” The last word was sharp, dagger-like, and Anders flinched with the anger projected at him. He’d never seen Hawke react with such venom.

“It’s.. no, of course not, but this isn’t really a place for personal conv..”

Hawke cut him off. “I’ve contracted for your time. Talk.”

Blood rushed into Anders’ cheeks and he fidgeted with his robes, hoping he wasn’t squirming quite as much as he felt he was. “You shouldn’t have done that, Hawke. I’ll talk to Mistress Lusine - if you gave her coin she’ll return it as soon as I explain.”

Hawke made a sound that was not very far from being a growl. “Explain what? That this isn’t what it seems? That your boyfriend shouldn’t have to pay to see you?”

Anders’ throat closed up and he couldn’t get himself to reply. He hoped desperately that Hawke would somehow not notice the ashen and dismayed look he was certain had spread across his face.

Silent moments ticked by, and Hawke felt a surge of fury at Anders’ absent response and clear distress. “Ah. I see. Fool that I am, I thought those evenings meant more than they did. I should have known as much as soon as I heard the rumour you worked here.”

Anders paled. _Oh, Maker, he thinks I’m upset that he called me his.._ “Hawke, please, you’ve..”

The other man gave him no chance to reply. “It’s not like a date” - he nearly spat the word out - “would have meant much to a whore. That’s what you are, isn’t it? A body for sale.”

Bitter and angry, Hawke’s emotions bested his self-control. He pulled at the front of Anders’ robes, popping buttons and clasps roughly, ignoring the other man’s shocked cries of protest. He slid a hand between the parted folds of fabric, fingers delving into Anders’ smallclothes to grasp the flaccid phallus within. Anders jerked and moaned with the touch despite himself. He’d ached for Hawke’s touch for so long - just not like this. He struggled weakly, trying to push the other man away, but Hawke had him well-pinned, warrior’s muscles making it easy to shrug off the mage’s attempts to resist. Hawke’s fingers stroked and pulled deftly, coaxing Anders into full erection, thumb rubbing around the swollen head. Anders tried to turn his face away, shamed by his easy arousal, but Hawke’s hand at his throat afforded him no mobility. Hawke dipped his head, teeth catching at the skin along Anders’ jawline, eliciting a series of low, needy cries that might have been Hawke’s name, might have been words. None of it came out clearly enough to tell.

Hawke hissed in his ear. “Is this the way you like it? Is this what they pay you for, to cry and writhe while they savage you, stake their night’s claim on your body? Does it arouse you to play the willing harlot for coin?”

Anders shook his head, his moans betraying his powerful physical response even as he did. Hawke’s hand quickened, and Anders gave a helpless gasp. He pressed his palms flat against the wall, his arms spread to either side, his hips bucking forward convulsively, pushing his stiff prick through the circle of Hawke’s fingers. Hawke stilled his hand then, letting the mage do the work, feeling the thick shaft swell and twitch as Anders’ cries became more urgent. With a sudden strangled shout, Anders’ body tensed and his seed spilled over Hawke’s fingers in a spurt. He sank back against the wall, mortified at what he’d done, hoping he’d be able to keep his feet under him.

Hawke lifted his hand to Anders’ lips wordlessly, holding it there until the other man understood and sucked away the traces of his own come. When Anders moved his mouth away, Hawke released his grip at the man’s throat and took a step back. He dropped a small pouch on the floor between them with a heavy clink of coins, and walked out of the room without another word.

Anders slid down the wall to land on the floor with a dismayed gasp, his heart thudding heavily in his chest, traitorous prick pulsing half-erect between his legs. He thought it might be too soon if he ever saw Hawke again. He thought he’d never stop wanting to feel Hawke’s hand on him again.


	5. Chapter 5

Brilliant ribbons of sunshine streamed in through the tall windows, exposing a room full of heaped-up books, papers and random articles of clothing. Hawke flailed a hand around wildly as a particularly bright beam of light landed directly across his eyes, managing to smack himself across the face as a result. He groaned with the ensuing ripple of pain. Andraste’s bouncy tits, why did his head feel like it was twice normal size and had been hit with a club?

Hawke wrestled himself into a sitting position and stared down blankly at his still-dressed body, taking in his rumpled clothes and the large jagged blotch in the centre of his tunic that looked like the sort of wine and ale stains usually decorating the regulars at the Hanged Man. He scrubbed his palms against his face, the motion seeming to set free a stray memory of careening wildly through the mansion with a bottle in hand while Bodahn shooed Sandal hurriedly into their room so the boy would stop cheering and clapping. Well, that explained the cracking headache. Hawke groaned again, this time in dismay. The prospect of emerging from the bedroom to face Bodahn’s unfailingly cheerful face in order to tender an awkward apology was not one he relished.

Pushing himself up and off the bed, Hawke tugged at his stained clothing, grimacing at the pungent stink of alcohol that clung to the fabric. He paused in the act of drawing the tunic up over his head, catching a hint of some heavy floral perfume, the misplaced scent sparking a moment’s confusion. It didn’t smell like Merrill or Isabela or Aveline or.. Hawke stopped his mental inventory there, realizing his roster of female acquaintances was rather limited. He shrugged and finished pulling the tunic all the way off - just as he placed the source of the perfume and recollection flooded his thoughts..

The tunic landed on the ground in a heap, dropped from fingers that had forgotten how to retain their grip. _Anders_.

His stomach twisted with the combined force of memory and the remnants of soured wine in his belly. He remembered the sickening shock and uncertainty that had propelled him to the Rose and compelled him to wait in the little room. The room where rose-scented perfume was infused into the air, into the linens. He’d tried to convince himself that the rumour about Anders was only that: a nasty lie, or a misguided joke perpetrated on him by someone who couldn’t have known how much he hated being the victim of such unfunny efforts. When Madame Lusine had directed him to the second floor, that apprehension had been transmuted into tight fury that grew in power with every moment he spent waiting alone to see if that night would be a night where Anders would appear. Hawke emitted a low noise much akin to a growl. How could he have been so oblivious to what Anders had been doing all along?

A clutter of fragmented images ran through Hawke’s mind. Anders’ golden hair reflecting the firelight on Sundermount. Anders with a nameless, faceless patron at the Rose, willing and eager. Anders’ fingers clasped in his own, a rare smile of delight gracing his lips at the invitation to dinner. _A date with a whore_ , came the quick follow-up, tainting the once-treasured memory. Anger flared, and Hawke smashed a clenched fist into one of the thick bedposts.

Pacing back and forth across the room, Hawke rubbed at his gashed knuckles, the stinging pain a salve for his tangled emotions and the heat of his ire. He remembered his own fingers seeking out Anders’ heated flesh. He remembered the feel of Anders’ lips on his hand, the anguished expression in the other man’s eyes, but he couldn’t grasp the memory that told him what he’d meant to accomplish, where he’d stopped keeping himself in control.

 _Maker, what have I done?_

Hawke sat down hard on the edge of the bed. The earlier flashes of violent emotion had fled in a rush, all that remained a sense of horrified disbelief at his own actions, at the way he’d allowed himself to be consumed by anger and bitter jealousy. Shame coursed through him. How would he ever face Anders again?

\--

Corpses littered the ground in the Bone Pit’s mining tunnels by the time the waves of enemies stopped coming. Sebastian leaned down to pluck free a few intact arrows as the rest of the group spread out to check for dropped coins or ensure that the accumulated bodies were in fact all the way dead. He recited verses of the Chant in a quiet sonorous voice as he moved from place to place, offering words for the living as well as the dead.

Hawke braced himself against the cavern wall, breathing heavily. He up-ended a thick vial, feeling the effect of the healing potion course through his body. The sensation was always curiously jarring to him, hot and icy-cold at the same time, a tingle that spread through his limbs to the very tips of his fingers and toes before dissipating. He raked his fingers through short hair made spiky with sweat. It had been a miserably long fight, and no one had escaped without an array of cuts and scrapes. Every unhealed wound reminded him of the absence in the group.

Merrill approached, her hands clasped together earnestly. She leaned toward him, her head cocked to the side as she ventured a tentative question. “Hawke, if Anders..”

He didn’t give her the opportunity to finish the question. “He’s not coming. Just leave it at that.” A surge of shame threatened to emerge, but shifted instead into defensive anger. The idea of explaining to Merrill - to anyone - why Anders wouldn’t be coming back was unbearable. _Of explaining what you did to him_ , came the harsher thought.

Merrill opened her mouth to reply, but closed it again with a glimpse of the expression on Hawke’s face. “I’ll just not ask about that again, then.” She wandered over to join Varric, shaking her head and shrugging as the dwarf asked her a question.

The next room was infested with spiders - huge, vile things with thick hairy limbs and dark bodies. The last one to fall pounced in the midst of its death throes, sinking its fangs deep in Varric’s arm. Varric spat a short curse and hoisted Bianca high, finishing the creature with a final shot. He turned away, rubbing his arm.

“That was not part of the plan.” The dwarf chuckled wryly and sat down on a rock to brush a few stray blood spatters off of his beloved crossbow.

Hawke opened up one of the packs, then another, frowning as he finally withdrew a slender vial. “This is all the antivenom we have left. It’s not a very good one, either.” He passed the potion to Varric, who drank it down with a grimace.

Sebastian leaned down to look at the small round puncture marks. “That should work for a short time, but we need to get a fresh stock of potions when we return to Kirkwall. Maker willing, that pack of spiders was the last of the vermin we need to clear out today.” He straightened and turned to Hawke. “We can’t keep fighting without a healer. Potions aren’t good enough.”

Hawke’s expression turned stony and unreceptive. “They’re enough.”

Varric looked up from wrapping the wound with strips of clean linen. “Choir Boy has a point, Hawke. We were lucky that nothing more dangerous was hiding in here today.”

Hawke snapped at them both. “He’s not coming back, so stop asking, all of you. We don’t _need_ him. He has his own work to do, we have ours.”

Sebastian’s eyes widened in surprise at Hawke’s angry tone. “Is something wrong, Hawke? The Maker counsels us to be at peace with one another even in times of hardship - perhaps if someone went to speak with him, see why he’s turned away..”

Hawke slashed a hand through the air to cut Sebastian off. “We can find another healer.” He frowned in exasperation. Why were they all being so stubborn? “Merrill. You’re a mage, can’t you heal?”

Merrill blinked at him. “Hawke, it doesn’t work that way. I can’t cast creation spells.”

Hawke grasped her hand and drew the elf toward Varric. “Just _try_. You don’t even want to do that much? It’s all the same..” He trailed off, unsure of the word to select, and ended up waving his free hand around in a vague circle. “.. energy, isn’t it?”

“It’s a different school of magic!”

“How different can they be? Merrill, _please_.” Hawke tugged her a little closer, placing her hand in Varric’s.

Merrill looked at him unhappily, but turned toward the dwarf with an expression of intent concentration. Nothing seemed to happen. She closed her eyes, her face scrunching up with the effort. Varric looked at Hawke, shaking his head.

Long minutes passed, and finally Merrill spun away, releasing Varric’s hand. Her eyes filled with tears, and she started to cry. “I _can’t_ , Hawke, I can’t. I tried everything I could. I’m not a healer. I’m sorry.”

Varric tried to soothe her. “You did your best, Daisy. Don’t blame yourself. We’ll find someone.” He shot Hawke a meaningful look clearly intended to convey something akin to ‘get over here and apologize, you ass’, but Hawke ignored him.

“Pack up. We’ll scout the next room, clear up any last problems, and head back.”

With the mines empty of danger for the time being, the little group travelled back to Kirkwall in awkward, impenetrable silence. Isabela was waiting for them at Hawke’s mansion, chatting companionably with Orana in front of the fireplace when the door opened. Merrill rushed to her, and the two talked in low, urgent voices.

Isabela strode over to Hawke, her posture and expression confrontational. “What is _wrong_ with you? You know she’s no healer.”

Hawke shrugged. “I asked her to try. What’s wrong with that?”

Isabela exhaled sharply. “Hawke, ever since you and Anders had your little lover’s quarrel, you’ve been tetchy. Until today. Now you’re being a selfish son of a bitch.” She glowered at him, uncharacteristically serious. “Leave Merrill out of it.”

Hawke looked at her, unfazed by the burst of anger. “Fine. I won’t ask her again.”

Isabela gave a short nod, looking anything but placated, but she stepped away nonetheless. She put an arm around Merrill’s shoulders protectively and shot Hawke a venomous parting look as the two departed for the alienage, calling back to him just before the door closed behind them. “Make nice with Anders, Hawke. You both want in each other’s pants, how hard can it be?”

An awkward silence surrounded the remaining three. Sebastian made a remark about getting back to the Chantry in time for evening prayers and left hastily. Varric and Hawke shuffled their feet and looked around, pretending to be interested in something else in the room until Varric finally broke the silence.

“So. How about a round at the Hanged Man? It’s on me. You can’t pass up an offer like that.”

Hawke laughed despite himself, the sound making a chip in his foul mood. “I could, actually. You should be paying me _not_ to drink at the Hanged Man.”

Varric grinned. “I could do that too.” He bowed extravagantly and held the door open as Hawke stepped through into the shadowed Hightown street.


	6. Chapter 6

The clinic was overwhelmed with activity. Barely two days after his encounter with Hawke at the Rose, an outbreak of disease had swept through Darktown that kept Anders busy from sunup to sundown and beyond. The clinic’s few rickety beds were reserved for only the most frail patients, and every spare patch of ground in between was checkered with blankets and bedrolls. During the worst times, Anders barely managed to reserve enough open floor to afford himself walking space to tend to the occupants of beds and bedrolls. He’d called in all of the favours he could from his usual cadre of Darktown assistants, mostly grateful former patients themselves, who squeezed through the gaps with cloths or spare blankets or chipped mugs of heavily diluted wine. Even with the extra help, he barely managed to huddle in a corner for an hour at a time to rest and regenerate his own strength before stumbling to his feet so he could continue again.

As the days stretched on in an unrelenting train, Anders lost any clear awareness of the passing of time. The gradual uncovering of the clinic floor as patients healed enough to return home offered the only evidence that the present day was different from the one that followed or the one that had come before. One evening Anders found himself staring blankly at an empty cot, sure there must be something wrong, trying to sort out why the worn and patched fabric didn’t support a body.

“Serah Anders?”

Anders turned toward the sound of the voice, his brow furrowed in confusion. One of the scruffy teenage boys who’d been running errands pushed a bowl of soup into his hands.

“My ma sent this for you.” The boy fished a spoon out of his pocket, and Anders winced as grubby fingers rubbed at the the utensil vigorously to produce what was apparently intended to be a cleaner state. “She made it for you, special. Said I was to make sure you ate it right up, you being so busy ‘n all.” The boy held the spoon out, waiting expectantly.

Anders told himself that the large smudged fingerprint remaining in the centre of the spoon was surely just a shadow - a very detailed sort of shadow. He dipped it into the bowl and dredged up a collection of drab chunks of vegetables and something resembling meat all immersed in a murky greyish broth. He looked up at the boy, who was watching him owlishly, and took a bite while imagining a fine feast of beef and potatoes with gravy and a glass of wine. Anders took some pleasure in embellishing that last, envisioning himself singlehandedly polishing off one of Fenris’ treasured bottles of Aggregio. He realized the boy was still watching him and hastily finished off the remainder of the soup, which left an unpleasant metallic aftertaste that clashed with the pleasant thought of better meals.

“Tell your ma thank you - and if she gets that cough again, you send her back here.” Anders sighed with relief as the boy departed with the reclaimed bowl and spoon. He sat down in a corner with every intention of folding some clean linens, but instead woke up several hours later to discover himself on the floor beneath one of the cots clutching a handful of blankets to his chest. He hastily put them back into the ‘needs washing’ pile and went to check on the patient he’d fallen asleep beneath.

At last, the clinic returned to its normal routine. Anders almost regretted the quiet. Fewer patients and fewer responsibilities led him inexorably back to his own thoughts and recollections. He gritted his teeth while he worked, the line of his jaw sharp and hard with tension, sullen and angry at his inability to keep thoughts of Hawke at bay. Moments of carelessness left him vulnerable to flashes of unwelcome arousal - remembrances of the heat of Hawke’s body close to his, the rhythmic stroke of the other man’s fingers. The recollection of the disgust and anger in Hawke’s voice, on the other hand, worked just as well as a bucket of ice water.

Anders stepped into his small personal section of the clinic, newly reclaimed with the decreasing numbers of patients, and pulled shut the curtain to give himself a modicum of privacy. He closed his eyes, soaking in a rare appreciation for Justice’s ordered thoughts, welcoming that certain soothing quality that followed along. As much as the part of him that was Justice had a relentlessly fiery and consuming passion for the mages’ cause, those thoughts were always focused and consistent - a reassuring absence of chaos. If nothing else, they drew him away from the things he wanted to forget.

As the evening stretched into night and the patients started to fall asleep, Anders sat outside the clinic doors next to the dim light that spilled from his lit lantern. He could hear voices, see distant shapes of people moving through the narrow alleys, some spots brightened by lanterns or cooking fires. Darktown was never quiet, not even this late, and on nights when Anders was melancholy and nostalgic it helped him to feel as if he were less alone. Justice rumbled bombastically about taking needed opportunities to go and do the good work of liberation and freedom, but Anders barely paid those thoughts any mind.

He didn’t want to think about Hawke again, but he did. How long had it been since he’d had a friend with whom there’d been any spark of real attraction? For that matter, how long had it been since he’d had a friend at all, someone he could talk to, someone he could ask for help? Someone he could actually be honest with about Justice. Anders had a moment’s vision of Vigil’s Keep, of Nate and Oghren and Sigrun and even Velanna, of the sounds of Master Wade’s constant chatter over the sound of his smithing hammer. Justice, with a voice he could hear outside his own head. The Hero of Ferelden, who Anders alternately admired and cursed - the latter mostly only if there’d been some mention of the Deep Roads. The thoughts faded as soon as they arrived. No point in indulging in memories of people and places lost to him, whether that be the Wardens in Ferelden, or Hawke here in Kirkwall.

Anders pushed himself to his feet. Maker, when had he gotten to be so morose? A little air - from somewhere other than Darktown - would do him good. He went back into the clinic to fetch a large leather pack and his staff, trying to brush the worst of the dust from his particularly bedraggled-looking pauldrons before departing again. Lirene had sent a messenger a couple of days back asking him to stop by. She’d been given a collection of odds-and-ends by a Fereldan family who’d been able to find a ship willing to take them (without most of their possessions) to Rivain, and she thought there might be some things he could use for the clinic. He tried to stay away from Lirene’s little shop during the day when the Templars might wander through or someone might point him out in an unfortunate moment as the Darktown healer, but everything would be quiet enough now. He shouldered the pack and started to make his way toward Lowtown.

\--

Anders walked through the Lowtown streets, humming to himself while keeping a close eye out for danger. Over the past months, Hawke had cleared out the majority of the bandit gangs, but a few smaller groups still remained and had been preying on the unwary - although Anders couldn’t imagine why anyone wouldn’t be automatically on their guard here or anywhere else in Kirkwall. He idly passed his staff back and forth between his hands as he walked, in time with the vague melody and the rhythm of his footfalls. He wondered why mages were so prone to carrying staves that so obviously marked them out as mages. It certainly wasn’t that the staff matched his robes. He plucked out a feather that was about to fall from his pauldrons and stuck it in the ornate top of the staff with a grin.

He looked up to get his bearings and realized that out of habit he’d taken the street that led past the Hanged Man. He shot a wistful look at the heavy double doors leading into the bar, taking a half-step forward as he remembered happier times, but turned toward the stairs leading toward Lirene’s shop instead.

A noise echoed faintly in the street, the sound of a nearby door swinging open on creaky hinges, and Anders turned to identify the source. The doors to the Hanged Man were creaking shut. Anders heard a sharp intake of breath just as he saw the man who’d emerged from the dim interior.

“Anders.” They each spoke at nearly the same time. “Hawke.”

The two men stood staring at one another in silence before Anders finally shrugged and offered up the remark they’d both been thinking. “Well. _This_ is awkward.”

Hawke toyed with the hem of his shirt. Anders caught himself noticing that the deep wine-coloured fabric was particularly attractive on the other man and wondered who’d picked it out - certainly not Hawke. Maybe Isabela. _Stop being foolish_ , he chastised himself.

“How are things at the clinic?” Hawke blurted out the question just as Anders spoke again with his own overlapping question. “Any interesting jobs these days?”

A moment’s laughter eased the tension that hung thickly between the two men, before Anders answered in a heavier voice. “It was tough for a while. So many sick. I..” His expression hardened, and Hawke thought he could see the hurt that lay beneath. “I couldn’t save them all. I tried.”

“I know you’d have done everything you could. You always do.” Hawke laid a hand gently on Anders’ arm. Anders flinched away, tugging his arm back before he realized he’d moved. Hawke felt like a cold spike had just been shoved through his stomach, and he stepped back, an apology on his lips that didn’t find voice before Anders spoke.

“Don’t.” Anders’ face mirrored the surge of hurt that came through in his roughened voice. “Not yet.” _Maybe not ever._

Hawke recoiled from that display of pain, from the understanding that this was what he’d wrought. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have.. I only meant to..”

It wasn’t the right response, not to placate or mend wounds. Anders cut him off. “Meant to what? I have a tough time in the clinic and with that you’re suddenly ready again to treat me like a man worthy of respect and kindness?”

“Anders, I..”

“You betrayed my trust, Hawke.” No longer wounded and defensive, Anders lashed out. There had been so many things he’d wanted to say to Hawke since that night; he’d played through a thousand imagined conversations. “I trusted you, and you took in anger what I would have given you if you’d only asked. You treated me worse than any client could have.”

Hawke turned away at that word, and Anders took a step forward, narrowing the gap between them. “This is who I am. I am the same man you said you wanted.” He faltered, just for a moment. “I am the same man who wanted you.”

“How can anything be the same, knowing what I know now?” Hawke’s face twisted in pain. He looked up at Anders, his throat working, yet no words formed. He took a breath and tried again. “I can’t stand thinking of all those people with their hands on your, their..” He thought he might choke on the words, but pushed forward. “Taking you, taking their pleasure with you. I.. I wanted it to be me. I thought you wanted that too.” He made a sound, all unwilling, and turned away to leave his face shadowed, out of Anders’ view.

Anders didn’t answer right away, couldn’t answer. Finally, his quiet voice came into that silent space between them. “I did want that.”

Hawke waved a hand dismissively, the display of vulnerability he’d meant to hide making him angry. “It’s not the same thing. You can’t say you wanted me while you gave yourself to anyone else who asked.”

Anders froze, staring hard at Hawke. “You don’t understand anything at all.”

“I understand very well what you’re willing to do for a handful of coin.”

The words hung in the air like a challenge. Anders closed the remaining gap between them with one long stride, his arm coming up in a wide arc.

His fist connected solidly with Hawke’s face.

Hawke stumbled backward with the unanticipated blow, stinging pain blossoming across his face, tiny sparkles of colour flickering in his vision. By the time he’d regained his bearings and his eyes had cleared, Anders had turned and was stalking away down the street without another word. Hawke watched until the other man disappeared around a corner before turning to re-enter the Hanged Man, wiping away a thin trail of blood where Anders had split his lip, his expression unreadable.


	7. Chapter 7

The lantern at the top of the small flight of steps leading up to the clinic had been snuffed out for the evening after the last of the patients had departed. A day infrequently populated with nothing more than minor injuries and routine illnesses was one to be savoured, and the quiet at the end of the day an even more pleasant reward. Everything had been neatly bundled away, the floors swept, and a small saucer of fresh milk had been tucked into a corner - just in case.

Anders lay on his little cot, one long leg hanging off the side, one arm dangling over the opposite side, his other hand holding up a book. Every so often he’d flip to a new page, or rifle through the pages already passed, muttering to himself at a few particularly interesting passages. The contents of one page made him leap up in a rush, crossing to the other side of the clinic where he kept his collection of herbs and tinctures and checking the inventory with a satisfied ‘aha!’ when he matched the label on a dusty bottle to the formula on the page. He sprawled back out on the cot with a pleased expression, thumbing through the book to find the start of the next section.

A sharp knock at the door echoed through the empty room. Anders sat up in an instant, laying the book down carefully. Making as little sound as possible, he moved closer to the door and listened intently to the silence following that knock, wary of who would be calling on him at this time of night without warning or any identifying call.

The knock came again. “Anders?” The voice was unrecognizable through the heavy wooden doors, but no templar would be asking for him by name. Anders opened the door.

“Aveline? This is unexpected.” Anders stepped back, holding the door open, as an invitation for her to enter. As she crossed into the room, he couldn’t help but cast his gaze around the darkened exterior of the clinic for the presence of a group of heavily-armoured companions. Aveline wasn’t an enemy, but neither was she exactly a friend, and her staunch dedication to the letter of the law had often enough put them at odds. Justice rumbled in his thoughts, a fragmented sentence that sounded something like ‘.. _noble and upstanding representative of_..’, but Anders ignored it. Anyone that dedicated to the law of the land in Kirkwall could very easily decide that a rogue mage needed to be reined in.

Aveline didn’t waste any time or conversational niceties getting to her point. “Anders. You should know that the Knight-Commander has ordered a series of patrols to sweep through Darktown. It’s mostly just for show, not really to clean up the district, but some fool noble wandered down here drunk and ended up nearly dead. His father has some degree of influence and is demanding something be done. They aren’t specifically looking for apostates, but they won’t overlook any they find, either.”

Ice filled his belly, a spreading chill that froze him to the spot. _Templars_. “I’ll leave tonight. I can call in a favour or two, find somewhere else to stay.” He paused in the midst of that frantic sense of needing to plan, to be somewhere else. “Why are you telling me this? Why not just let them sweep me up, rid yourself of one more potential problem? We aren’t really friends. We both know that.”

She gave him an appraising look before answering. “Well. You’re very direct tonight. Is that you, or your spirit? Never mind - I’d rather not know. I’m telling you because you haven’t broken any laws,” - her tone of voice clearly wanted to tag _yet_ on to the end of that phrase - “and because Hawke needs a healer he can count on. I know your skill. We may not be friends, Anders, but we are both his companions, and that means something to me.”

Anders tried with poor success to stifle a wince at that statement. He tried to cover it up with an extra twitch, which likely only managed to make him look like he was suffering some sort of strange seizure. He sighed. “I don’t think Hawke will be asking for my help any time soon. I am grateful for the warning, Aveline. Truly.”

“I thought you and Hawke were.. you know. A couple. Together.” Aveline gritted her teeth in aggravation. “Isabela. Was she making up stories again? Maker, I don’t know how I put up with that woman some days. Her and Varric, the both of them.”

Anders waved his hands in front of him in negation and shook his head. “Don’t blame Isabela. Or Varric.” He nearly laughed at a brief recollection of once finding a tattered copy of the co-written _Hard in Hightown III: Kirkwall Nights_ left behind by a patient. Of particular amusement had been the horrified reaction elicited when he’d taken the book with him to the Hanged Man and the others had had the chance to read a few choice passages. He’d actually been rather fond of the chapters involving ‘Jander’ the dashing apostate. He cleared his throat. “Um. Not this time, at least. Hawke and I - we were, but.. I mean, we aren’t..” He trailed off awkwardly.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

Anders shrugged, the sympathy in Aveline’s reaction bringing on a sudden impulse to confide, to explain. “I never thought that after Justice I could have any chance at love or companionship. It’s only been the mission, our purpose. The cause. With Hawke, I’d hoped that maybe..” He shook his head. “I figure I’m just back where I started. I shouldn’t have let myself wish for something like that.”

Aveline laid a hand on his shoulder, the gesture unexpectedly gentle. “It’s never wrong to want to love and be loved in return, Anders.” She flashed a quick smile at him, and it struck him how happy it made her look, how suddenly lovely. He’d never thought before that Donnic was a lucky man.

“Thanks, Aveline. And thanks for the warning. I’ll be out of here tonight.”

She nodded and turned to go, pausing in the doorway. “He’s been bristly since you’ve been gone. Insufferable, some days. I thought you might want to know that. The others - I think no one wanted to interfere again.” With that, Aveline was gone into the deeper darkness outside of the clinic.

Anders watched after her for a moment, her parting remarks lingering in his thoughts. Knowing that his absence had been noticed soothed a little of the aching loneliness he’d been feeling, somehow, even if ‘no one wanted to interfere’ didn’t really mean ‘we missed you, Anders’. Her comment about Hawke had brought a tight painful knot in his chest, part anger and part bitter wound. He turned away from those thoughts and set his mind to what had to be done.

He fished out a pair of deep leather packs and started to cram in whatever was both close at hand and likely to be reasonably useful. A few items of threadbare clothing. A small leather case with a variety of potions and reagents. A little pile of books. An assortment of other supplies from the clinic stores. A few other books and magical treatises were stashed into a small cubbyhole in the back wall, carefully concealed afterward with a jagged wooden panel and the area obscured by the placement of a rickety chair.

“I guess that’s it.” The sound of his own voice seemed out of place in the empty clinic. Anders hefted one pack over his shoulder and picked up the second, barring the door carefully behind as he left.

The first stop Anders made placed him back at Lirene’s. He knocked once, twice, three times at the door, the rhythmic repetition bringing her to the entrance despite the late hour.

“Serah Anders! Twice in less than a month, I can’t say as I’ve ever seen you so often. Has something happened?” She ushered him in quickly, scanning the street outside for problems.

“Nothing to worry over. I need to spend a few days away from Darktown - could you get the word to anyone who comes around here asking after a healer? I’ll come by once a day or so to check in, if that’s fine by you.”

Lirene nodded and took a step back so she could peer into the side room. “Of course, serah. With all you’ve done for us Fereldans here, I’m happy to help when you’re the one in a spot. There’s not too many in the shop these days, looks like they’ve not taken up that far corner. You can use that when you come by. Unless you’d like to stay here too?”

Anders could think of few places he’d like to stay at less than the crowded, hot and noisy shop. “Ah - no, Lirene, thank you for offering. Very generous, but I’ve got a place I’m staying at. I’ll be by tomorrow. If I could maybe leave a few of my supplies here?” He hefted one of the heavy packs.

With half of his burden stashed securely behind the shop’s counter, Anders made his way through the city with a lightened step. No line of patients at the clinic. No job running him every which way around Kirkwall and its surroundings. Nothing but himself and the pack over his shoulder. He felt curiously free. “Yes, yes,” he muttered under his breath at Justice’s insistence that _true freedom_ had not yet been acquired. “You’re missing the point.”

Anders climbed the stairs into Hightown. The sun on his face as he entered the outdoor merchant’s area felt warm and wonderful, washing away the remnants of the chill of fear that had dogged his steps since Aveline’s warning. The mood made him feel indulgent. Impulsive. As he crossed the broad open courtyard, he spotted the robe merchant by the steps on the other side. With a smile so big it nearly made his face ache, Anders made a bee-line for the little stall.

“Welcome, messere. Can I interest you in any of my wares on this fine day?” The merchant’s words were distinctly lacking in sincerity as he eyed Anders’ ratty attire, the appraisal clear that this was someone who would certainly not be able to afford even the cheapest item. Anders produced a small pouch that jingled with heavy coins - everything he had left, but the other man wouldn’t know that - and stepped closer to get a better look at the display.

The merchant, true to stereotype, changed his demeanor instantly at the show of coin. “Perhaps this, messere?” He pulled out a robe of rich red, heavily embroidered and trimmed with silver thread. A shake of Anders’ head, and he set it back in place and thumbed through the rack thoughtfully. “Would this be more to messere’s taste?” This time, he brought out a long jewel-green robe with a high neck, embroidered with black and gold thread. Anders exclaimed appreciatively and held his arms out to try the piece on, letting the merchant settle it onto his shoulders and fasten the clasps at the front. The robe was the perfect length even for his tall frame. He ran his hands down the front, feeling the way it conformed to his figure, the velvety-smooth feel of the fine fabric. After that, it was only a matter of negotiating the price.

Anders stuffed his old robes into the pack, reaching a hand up to free his hair from the leather cord. He’d managed to work the merchant down to something reasonable - well, reasonable if he never bought another set of robes again. The way he felt right at that moment had to be worth the cost. Humming with contentment, he strolled through the streets that led back to the Blooming Rose, flashing a rakish grin and a wink at a pair of women who watched him pass with obvious appreciation. He hadn’t felt this good in a very, very long time.


End file.
